by Nicole Oquendo Alex Simpson When I was small, a small certain version of irreparable me, a tiny furnace burning, we drove, always, past the airfield where the planes lived in their tiny houses. We’d pass my favorite restaurant on the way, but the idea of free chips, that crunch, that blessing, was nothing up against the stretch of wing, always flatter than I could stretch, and even less still compared to the spin of a propeller moving so fast you couldn’t lock your eyes on